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I lost a little over a week of work with Kay and I hustling - maybe two? I lost momentum. Depression factors into this kind of thing; something I've noticed is that I can't tell if I'd have done work if I wasn't stressed or depressed when I am. It seems like a cop out. It is, a bit. But, on the other hand, when I feel this way, my brain doesn't really work. Thoughts don't really form. Writing feels strangely physical and the act of writing feels like attempting to coax a nuance of thought into a full fledged, coherent idea, and then, writing those down feels a little like trying to lift weights you know you can move on a good day with muscles that are too fatigued or with hands that won't properly grip.
That last one I know about. When I worked for Cal Johnson's back in the day, now, I was at pretty much the exact wrong height to type. No matter what I'd do, I couldn't get my hands, wrists, arms into a good position. I'd come home and collapse for a few hours - never really enough - and wake up with bones that felt as brittle and fragile as dry rotted sticks. So, I'm move my wrists and they'd all snap like dried leaves. Something was clearly wrong, but I had no money for a brace, much less to see a physician, so I tried to wait it out. It got bad. I'd be at the store and try to grab something off of a shelf and my hand wouldn't close or I'd try to carry a gallon of milk and my wrist would quietly give out, and I'd drop it. It's mostly better, these days. I don't know how shit like that actually improves, but I'm glad. At the time, I just accepted that this shit-tier call center job had destroyed my wrists and there was absolutely no proof or recourse.
That's what thinking is like, and I assume that it'll get better when the situation does. For now, I make lists that guide me through getting through my shit in the morning - eat breakfast, drink coffee, brush and floss. Excercise a bit. Shower, shave, dress. All the basics. It doesn't matter if you feel like you should or need to, I just know that I do, and that things get better when you do these things, and they do.
That last one I know about. When I worked for Cal Johnson's back in the day, now, I was at pretty much the exact wrong height to type. No matter what I'd do, I couldn't get my hands, wrists, arms into a good position. I'd come home and collapse for a few hours - never really enough - and wake up with bones that felt as brittle and fragile as dry rotted sticks. So, I'm move my wrists and they'd all snap like dried leaves. Something was clearly wrong, but I had no money for a brace, much less to see a physician, so I tried to wait it out. It got bad. I'd be at the store and try to grab something off of a shelf and my hand wouldn't close or I'd try to carry a gallon of milk and my wrist would quietly give out, and I'd drop it. It's mostly better, these days. I don't know how shit like that actually improves, but I'm glad. At the time, I just accepted that this shit-tier call center job had destroyed my wrists and there was absolutely no proof or recourse.
That's what thinking is like, and I assume that it'll get better when the situation does. For now, I make lists that guide me through getting through my shit in the morning - eat breakfast, drink coffee, brush and floss. Excercise a bit. Shower, shave, dress. All the basics. It doesn't matter if you feel like you should or need to, I just know that I do, and that things get better when you do these things, and they do.